


Perihelion

by Mx_Dragon



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Bondage, Character Death, Coming Untouched, Extremely Dubious Consent, Kidnapping, M/M, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24011149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Dragon/pseuds/Mx_Dragon
Summary: The final sacrifice. What more can be said?(Originally published August 3, 2008 as "Dies Natalis Solis Invicti" on AdultFanfiction under the name screamer1234.)
Relationships: Walter Sullivan/Henry Townshend
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	Perihelion

Most of the Sacraments had seen him coming. Henry, however, had not. Walter watched with a certain sense of fulfillment as he crumpled to the kitchen floor, absently stroking his borrowed steel pipe.  
  
This was his final sacrifice. The shining apogee of what he had pursued through death itself. It would not do to simply, _crudely_ blow out his Receiver’s brains. Or stave his skull in from behind, although in his enthusiasm he’d come dangerously close. Or break his neck over his knee. Or even stab him in the throat.  
  
No. Henry Townshend, his Receiver of Wisdom, merited—was entitled to—a death more…ceremonial.  
  
Walter Sullivan sighed. It was a musical noise.  
  
“All for you, Mother,” he said softly. But his eyes did not leave the man on the floor.  
  


* * *

  
He’d carried Henry, one arm under his shoulders and the other under his knees, to the room where he had kept his mortal shell. The way Henry’s warm, lithe body fit against his chest made his dead heart jerk and shudder. That metal cross stood empty now; it would serve his purposes nicely.  
  
Walter stripped him quickly and tossed his clothes in the corner—decorum was unnecessary, his Receiver would not need them again—then pushed Henry up onto the cross. He drew the limp wrists tight against its frame with strong, neat knots so that Henry’s toes barely touched the floor. He worked fast; it would not affect his plans one way or the other if Henry regained consciousness unexpectedly, but the resulting delay would be tedious, and Walter was feeling uncharacteristically impatient today. But even he could forgive himself. It was not every day that a ritual for the Holy Mother ten years in the making neared completion.  
  
Henry moaned and stirred just as Walter secured the last knot holding his ankles secure to the cross’s base. Walter got to his feet and watched intently as Henry's eyes rolled under their lids, then opened blearily. He tried to speak and produced instead a pained groan. He tried again and finally slurred, “Nnngh…what… _fuck_ , my _head_ …” They opened wider and Walter could see the awareness seeping back into them—the horror stretching Henry’s face as he realized his clothes were gone and who stood in front of him. Walter did not touch, only watched, as his captive pulled at his restraints with greater and greater panic, thrashing wildly until his muscles gave out. He sagged, chest heaving, dark eyes huge and liquid and shining with fear. Deer’s eyes.  
  
_Beautiful.  
  
_Henry’s mouth was dry and slack, but Walter was not disappointed. His Receiver was warm and tasted like salt and black coffee and humanity. Walter explored him thoroughly with his tongue and bit softly, then harshly at his lips, relishing Henry’s quiet winces and the drops of blood that welled forth. After a moment he withdrew. Time enough for that later.  
  
Walter knelt and, without ceremony, ran his tongue along Henry’s limp shaft from tip to base. Henry gasped sharply. “What are you—!” His shock liquefied into a stifled moan when Walter hungrily descended on him as far as his mouth allowed. He pressed the slim blade of his knife flat between abdomen and palm, fascinated by the dual sensations of warm flesh hardening under his tongue and twitching away from the cold metal in his hand. Henry struggled to stay quiet; only small, choked sobs clawed from his throat. The Conjurer half-smirked, half-smiled around his flesh. His Receiver had always been so stoic. So reserved. One way or another, he’d make him scream. He’d bring his sacrifice to life before he offered it to God.  
  
Walter cupped and rolled his balls with his other hand, slid the strong middle part of his tongue hard along the sensitive underside, and Henry gave a raw, desperate gasp. He sucked until his cheeks hollowed and Henry made a strange, almost pained keening noise. He swallowed his darling sacrifice and his cries vibrated the warm, close air.  
  
From the way his prey was trembling, he was close. From the salt leaking slick down his throat, he was clinging desperately to the edge with only the long, fragile claws of his pride. Walter would be lying (be _sinning_ ) if he pretended he wasn’t affected; his groin was already painfully tight with anticipation.  
  
Time, then.  
  
Henry shrieked when the knife tip abruptly pierced the muscle of his abdomen; Walter’s back arched at the hellish noise. But he stayed at his work.  
  
He did not have to look up to carve the Halo of the Sun—he carried the shape like a longing in his heart, the words he used to ask his prayers, emblazoned on the inside of his skull, inscribed on every cell carried by a pulse now rushing rabbit-fast. Henry gave a shrill scream that slid as if on blood and guttered into a sob. Walter’s body went rigid with the effort it took not to buck.  
  
Bit by bit, he shaped the circles, one within the other, three upon three. One by one, the symbols spread, like the eyes of a peacock’s tail, like the Order’s thousand watchful eyes, like the Red God’s, the Yellow God’s eyes, the eyes of Valtiel Her Right Arm Most Blessed whose infinite fingers ran all through him now. He desperately tried to ignore the thick salt-copper blood flowing over his hands and face, though he could not hold back deep, bestial moans; all of these, all these slim fibers of Her eyes, were fixed upon him, and Her Eye itself at the apex of this holiest sign. He almost felt Her warm gaze on his back.  
  
His mother was watching.  
  
_So soon, so close, Mother! You’ll be brought up from Your sleep like the Sun into a new day!  
  
_Henry was panting, trembling again, but he was almost done. Just one more curve, one more tiny dig of the knife that forced a last weak, agonized mew from his sacrifice  
  
one more fan to the sweet, unbearable Sun tearing him apart from the inside  
  
and it was done. Reverently, he stowed the knife in his coat, and with equal reverence stroked the insides of Henry’s thighs. Henry came hard with a whine as his shuddering strained the torn muscles of his abdomen. Walter swallowed every drop and sucked for more until Henry gasped.  
  
He opened his eyes—the numbers now, the last of his neat tally to reunion. “Mother,” he murmured, though the very brush of his clothes on his skin was torture; the time for salvation was at hand.  
  
Walter rose. And then he couldn’t breathe.  
  
Henry was wet and slick and shining with sweat and viscous bright blood already drying to tackiness. Tears tracked down his rough cheeks, he could see every muscle trembling under that fragile skin and, oh, Walter was burning in a holy hellfire, it had burst out from inside and it was consuming him and he was kissing his beautiful one so hard that his lip split  
  
and the taste of blood wasn’t helping  
  
and he had to concentrate he had to finish this couldn’t get distracted even though the Mother was so close _so close  
  
_he could taste  
  
Paradise  
  
he must have fallen to his knees again because he could taste Paradise  
  
thick blood on his hands on his mouth in his mouth on his _tongue  
  
_face pressed close, nose digging into the deep wounds of his Receiver of Wisdom, head pounding with his beautiful moans of misery and pain, he was nursing at Her breast, every second warmer, closer to Her, fortunate he didn’t need to breathe because his nostrils had filled with thick blood and he was drinking it in pushing him to Paradise white-hot like the Sun oh further _oh God  
  
_and he was  
  
there  
  
the Sun ate him to ash  
  
and nowhere  
  
and then he fell  
  
inhumanly human again, weak, empty, trembling, sticky with sweat and wet like spreading blood between his legs. His fingers had left deep, purpling marks on his sacrifice’s thighs. Slowly, he withdrew them.  
  
As if through fog, Walter noticed that Henry was cold. But he still felt warm.


End file.
